


Pretty Little Psycho

by PseudonymousBotched



Series: Demon's Run [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Doctor Whump, Hospitalization, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Hospital, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Doctor, Self Harm, Suicide Attempt, Whump, background Nine/Jack, mental health breakdown, the doctor uses they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 06:19:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13117827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudonymousBotched/pseuds/PseudonymousBotched
Summary: The Doctor has just survived an inadvertent suicide attempt. Little do they know that they are about to face the music when it comes to their blatant self harm and increasingly creative suicide attempts. When a situation unfolds that Jack and Rose cannot deal with on their own, they have to call in outside help. This is the story of how the Doctor ended up in the psych ward of a 2000's era London hospital. They have to face their demons, including their guilt about being involved in the Time War and being the last genocidal member of their species, if they ever want to live with themselves.Hella dark, hella angsty, hella whumpy. The Doctor is nonbinary and uses neutral they/them pronouns. The Doctor and Jack are involved but it doesn't play much of a role in the story.  This is a sequel to Silver and Orange, in the Demon's Run series.





	1. A Handful of Regret

The Doctor regretted it as soon as they'd done it.

They had only just healed up from what they knew Jack and Rose considered a suicide attempt. It hadn't been, not consciously at least. They had just accidentally gone too far. They hadn't meant to lose all that blood. It wasn't on purpose that they'd nearly died.

It had been a week before Jack would let them out of the medical bay, and they had practically been crawling up the walls with boredom and anxiety. But when the bandages came off, leaving nothing but thick, raised white scars behind, Jack sighed heavily through his nose and acquiesced to letting the Doctor out into the rest of the TARDIS.

They'd gone exploring to find that all their sharps had mysteriously gone missing. Evidently Jack and Rose had combed through the entire TARDIS – an astonishing feat – and removed anything that the Doctor could have used to hurt themselves with. Even the secret stash of razor blades and knives under their bedroom floorboards was gone – and yes, the Doctor did check, quietly in the dead of night, wrenching up the wood and feeling around in the dark cavity beneath, just to find emptiness beneath their fingers.

But now, a few days later, the Doctor had turned into a forgotten and hidden away little storeroom, down the second corridor and fifth on the left, just past the bust of Madame de Pompadour. They closed the door behind them, and opened a drawer to find a box of razor blades. Fresh, unused, gleaming silver in the wane amber light. The Doctor felt a sick sort of longing in the pit of their stomach, a sudden awareness of the sensitivity of the skin of their forearms, and an itch in their fingertips to reach out and take the sharps.

They hesitated – and then – letting out a deep breath, slammed the drawer shut.

They turned to leave.

They stopped. 

And pivoted on their right heel, turning back toward the drawer. Their ice blue eyes were fixated on the drawer.

Jack was going to be so disappointed, whispered a small impulse in the back of their head. But they didn't care. They'd been going mad for even a single, small cut for weeks now. They needed to self harm like they needed to breathe air (even if it was at different concentrations of gasses than humans required).

With hands that were slightly shaking from anticipation, they slowly slid the drawer open again and lifted out the box. They tilted a few blades out. The silvery metal shone in their palm, and they bounced them a few times, just because.

The Doctor suddenly looked up, eyes widening in alarm. Had they heard footsteps in the corridor outside? 

They felt a swelling of cold alarm in the pit of their stomach, and a lightheaded guilt. If Jack or Rose walked in and found them holding sharps...

They shoved the box back into the drawer and hastily pushed the drawer shut. But wait... what about the blades they were holding, clutched in the palm of their right hand? They'd forgotten to put them back into the box.

There was no time – they had to hide them somehow.

It was then that an impulse occurred to them. An easy way to hide the blades, and still hurt themselves in the process... The pain they craved and deserved to feel, and they might just well die in the process ...if they were lucky.

The Doctor turned away from the door and put their hand to their mouth. Swallowing the razor blades dry was going to be difficult, but they'd managed to swallow pills without any water before, so surely they could manage it. They mentally stepped away from what they were doing and forced their gag reflex to shut down. Almost automatically, they tipped the blades into their mouth and forced them down.

The Doctor regretted it as soon as they'd done it. The pain was immediate and snapped the Doctor back into awareness of their body. Sharp, slicing pains radiated from the back of their throat and quickly spread downward, coming to rest in their upper left abdomen, where the first of their stomachs was located.

The Doctor pivoted back toward the doorway without knowing why. Perhaps a vague thought of calling for help crossed their mind. They raised their hands and automatically clutched at their throat, then their abdomen, as if touching where the pain was would help ease it. Then a convulsion of pain wracked through them, and they went down, crumpling at the knees.

They landed with a heavy thud, on their right side, and a wave of agony caused them to reflexively curl into the fetal position with their arms clutched around their upper abdomen. It was then that their self control broke and they cried out in pain.

“Aaaugh!”

The agonized sound echoed through the corridors of the TARDIS, hardly recognizable as a voice. It was primal and raw with pain, and with little trace of the Northern accent that usually flavoured it.

The Doctor's cry brought his companions running, and Jack flung open the door and paused, alarmed by the sight of the prostrate Time Lord looking so unusually vulnerable. Then he crouched by the Doctor's side, hands deliberately kept to himself so as not to touch them the wrong way and cause them more pain. Jack's face was taut with concern, normally jovial eyes sparking and flat in colour.“What's wrong, what did you do?” he asked urgently.

Rose was right behind Jack, and she knelt by the Doctor's other side, behind their back, reaching out a reassuring hand to touch them on the shoulder. Her brown eyes were wide and dark with concern.

The Doctor struggled to speak through the pain. “S-something stupid,” they manage to get out, voice strained and tremulous. 

“Tell us,” encouraged Rose gently.

They suppressed a groan of pain, clenching their teeth and shuddering. When the brief spasm passed a few seconds later, they speak. “I s-saw 'em and I couldn't help myself...”

“Saw what?” asked Jack.

“Th' box of razor blades...” The Doctor trailed off and uncurled themselves a little to look up at Jack with an unsteady and dazed gaze.“I'm s-sorry, I wasn't thinkin'...”

“Just tell me what you did,” Jack said as gently as he can manage through the rising panic.

The Doctor hesitated, but momentarily they take a shuddering breath and speak. “I … s-swallowed somethin'... a han'ful of razor blades...”

Rose inhaled sharply, putting her free hand to her mouth. Her brown eyes darken with shock.

The Doctor closed their eyes, guilt written all over their face. “I found 'em while poking around... I didn't want you to find me cuttin' again, and I thought I heard footsteps an' I just … panicked...”

With a shudder, the Doctor doubled up again, arms tightening around their middle. They let out a groan that built up in intensity until the Doctor clenched their teeth and choked it into a whine.

“It hurts...” they gasped out. “Please, make it s-stop...”

Jack finally reached out to the Doctor, touching them gently on the back of their clenched hands. “I'm sorry, but we need to get you professional help,” Jack said.

The Doctor is seized by a burst of energy and fear, and they grabbed Jack's wrist. “No 'ospital,” they said, voice constricted and pupils dilating until the ice blue eyes were almost entirely swallowed by black. “I'm not human. They'll kill me – ”

“You'll die if we don't take you!” said Jack.

The Doctor opened their mouth as if to argue, but instead a convulsion ran through their body and they doubled up in pain again, head nearly touching their knees. They trembled with the strain of it. Another cry of pain was brought out from somewhere deep inside their body. “Aaaaugh!”

Jack looked up at Rose. “You've got a mobile that works here, right?”

Rose nodded, brown eyes wide.

“Get an ambulance coming as fast as you can.”

Rose nodded again, then gave the Doctor a reassuring pat on the shoulder and stood. She left the room, already reaching in her pocket for her mobile.

“No 'ospital...” groaned the Doctor.

Jack looked at the Time Lord with pity and concern. “I'm sorry, Doc, but we have to.”

Panting through an open mouth, the Doctor carefully uncurled themselves to stare up at Jack again. “Last time I was in a 'ospital, the humans did kill me,” they managed to say. “An' their drugs almost stopped my regeneration... I'm not human, Jack, an' the humans won't know what to do with me...”

“I don't know what else to do,” said Jack, and he impulsively reached up and touched the Doctor on the cheek. “I want you alive, damn it.”

The Doctor half closed their eyes and tilted their head into his touch, before shuddering in pain again.

Rose came back into the room. She stood in the doorway, unsure where to be. “The ambulance is comin',” she said. “...Are we going to let them into the TARDIS or …?”

Jack seemed to come to a decision. “No, we can't let them see the inside of this place,” he said authoritatively. “We need to get him up and out the door.”

“Can he even walk?” Rose unconsciously brought her fingers to her mouth and started nibbling on her nails, before catching herself and dropping her hand to her side again.

“If he can't walk, we'll have to carry him. Come on, up on your feet,” said Jack. He took the Doctor's left arm and placed it around his shoulders, hauling them half off the floor. “Get your feet under you.”

The Doctor blinked blearily and managed to do as Jack said, boots scuffing the floor as they stumbled. Jack steadied them, but they both nearly went over.

Rose darted forward and caught them on the other side, taking their other arm and helping them balance.

“Thanks,” said Jack. “Now for the hard part.”

The Doctor's head was swimming from the pain and they could hardly even tell where the floor was in relation to themselves. But they focused on blotting out the agony radiating from their throat and stomach and instead thinking about putting one foot in front of the other. 

Jack was saying something, running off at the mouth with soothing sounding words meant to encourage and little else. They didn't have the strength to untangle the words and work their feet at the same time.

It seemed like they blinked and they were down the corridor and into the console room, and at the same time it felt like an eternity of unsteadiness and pain. But now the soothing sound of the engines surrounded them, and they felt the TARDIS's concern coming through their mental bond in lukewarm waves that washed over their dimming consciousness. 

The Doctor tried to send thoughts of their being fine and everything going to be okay back at the TARDIS, but they got the sense that their agony overwhelmed the message instead.

The TARDIS harrumphed in alarm and worry at them. Lights on the console blinked spasmodically and the engines gave a deep rumble that felt like the soundification of concern.

“Even the TARDIS is worried,” observed Rose. 

“As well it should be,” said Jack. “Here, you go open the doors. I've got him.”

Rose slipped out from under the Doctor's arm and darted away. Jack readjusted his positioning and took the majority of their weight, letting them lean on him.

That was fine by them. They let out a sigh, and leaned heavily on Jack. The scent of him was familiar and comforting, tobacco and soap and something else musky that was unique to Jack. Some sort of cologne, though where he got it they had no idea... They swallowed, having collected a mouthful of saliva, and it stung unnaturally on the way down.

A ray of sunlight pierced the twilight in the console room, and then Rose's footsteps came back.

That was when another spasm of agony struck the Doctor, and with a bitter groan they sank down onto their knees. The metal grating of the console room floor was rough on their knees, even through their black denim jeans. Jack tried his best to support them, but they were just too heavy and unbalanced. 

Jack guided the Doctor down, into lying on his back looking up at the askew ceiling. They were breathing heavily, and unconsciously clenched their hands by their side. Rose and Jack were there, looking like giants looming above them in the gloom.

“Can we get him out the door?” asked Rose.

They didn't hear Jack's reply, because they were too focused on regulating their breathing. It was shallow and ragged, and a squeezing pressure in their chest prevented them from taking a deep breath. They were starting to feel lightheaded, honestly.

The agony in their stomach returned with a sudden spike, and they cried out from the sharpness of it. Their throat was instantly raw from the force of their cry. They reflexively tried to double up in pain, but they were fighting against gravity and only had the strength to lift their upper body a few inches off the grate. Their hands clenched even tighter, fingernails scraping against metal.

Then everything went grey.


	2. Funride

They could tell they were lying on some sort of padded surface. There were small movements rocking them around, and with each change in momentum the pain in their stomach flared a little. Their face contorted into a grimace automatically, and slowly they figured out how to open their eyes.

They were staring up at a low and metallic ceiling. There was an engine rumble, differently pitched than the TARDIS's engines. It sounded like a combustion engine.

It occurred to the Doctor that they were in a human ambulance, circa the 2000's. This suspicion was confirmed when a paramedic tilted into view.

“Patient has regained consciousness,” he said, looking up and behind their head. 

“Where 'm I?” rasped the Doctor, feeling pain rise up in their throat as they spoke.

“You're in an ambulance,” said the paramedic shortly but not unkindly. “How much do you remember?”

The paramedic was doing something with his hands, and they heard the sound of opening packaging.

“I … was in the TARDIS,” they said, not remembering to be careful. “I was with … where're Jack and Rose?”

“Your friends? They'll be at the hospital when you get there, don't worry,” said the paramedic. “There wasn't room for all of us in here.”

They tilted their head and saw out of the corner of their vision that the paramedic was preparing an IV. The paramedic grasped their right arm and tilted it so the inner elbow was exposed, then started to move the needle closer to the skin.

Something inside the Doctor snapped with instinctual fear, and they wrenched their arm away from the paramedic. In the same smooth motion, they sat up, only to snap into a curled up shape and howl from the pain caused by moving. 

“Whoa, whoa, calm down! We've got a fighter here,” the Doctor's paramedic called to the driving paramedic.

The paramedic grabbed the Doctor by the shoulders and forced him down onto the gurney again. “It's okay, we're here to help,” he said as soothingly as could be managed under the situation. “We're not going to hurt you.”

It was just gibberish to the Doctor. As the paramedic released their shoulders, they struck out with clenched fists, blinded by pain and panic.

The paramedic avoided the punches and grabbed their flailing arms, pinning them down at their sides. The Doctor writhed, unable to escape as the paramedic fastened them down at the wrists with fabric restraints.

But their legs were still free, and the Doctor aimed a vicious kick at the paramedic's face. If the paramedic had not dodged at the last second, he would have been sporting a broken face courtesy of the Doctor's heavy boot.

“Calm down!” said the paramedic again. 

The Doctor's face was contorted into a snarl born of fear and pain, and they were breathing rapidly. “Listen to me,” they said quickly, as the paramedic again reached for the IV needle. “Whatever you're thinking of injecting me with, you can't.”

The paramedic grasped their right arm and rotated it so the inner elbow was once again exposed. With a latex-gloved finger, he felt of the skin until he nodded, satisfied that he'd found a good vein, and then lowered the needle.

“Please, listen to me! I'm not 'uman! I have two hearts! I'm an alien! Your drugs will kill me!” The Doctor thrashed against the restraints holding them down. “Listen to my heartbeats if you don't believe me. Please!”

The paramedic paused. 

“If I hadn't seen that weird blue box of yours,” he said slowly, “I would say that you're delusional right now.”

The paramedic set down the needle again – the Doctor let out a shuddering sigh of relief – and put a stethoscope in his ears. Pressing the diaphragm against the left side of the Doctor's chest, he obviously heard nothing amiss... But at their nod, the paramedic moved the diaphragm to the right side.

The paramedic didn't react for several seconds. Then his eyebrows just about crawled up his forehead, and his eyes widened. 

The Doctor allowed themselves a cheeky grin, although it was twisted a little by pain. “See? I told ya.” Then their brief spurt of a good mood was overtaken by a fresh wave of pain, and they closed their eyes and clenched their teeth to stop themselves from whimpering. They fancied they could feel the razor blades sloshing inside their stomach.

The paramedic removed the stethoscope and apparently set it to the side, making a soft clink.

“W-what is safe for pain management in … people like you?” he asked.

They forced themselves to open their eyes and focus on the paramedic again. “Nothing in the salicylate family for sure,” they said. “Wrong metabolism. Even a milligram is almost immediately lethal.”

“So no aspirin. You need something a fair touch stronger than that, though.”

“Opiates are safe.”

“We don't carry opiates in our ambulances.”

“I'm not gonna get addicted,” said the Doctor, trying to smile in all good humor. “My metabolism would burn it up too fast for it to have that sort of effect.”

The paramedic shrugged. “Doesn't matter, still don't have any in here.”

The Doctor's smile faltered as a new wave of pain assailed them. They clenched their fists, fingernails digging into the skin of their palms, so as not to cry out.

“We're just a few minutes away from the hospital,” said the paramedic reassuringly. He reached out and put a gentle hand on their shoulder. “We'll get you fixed up there.”


End file.
